


Lost In Time (and its infinite reflections)

by starknight



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Hanukkah, Happy Ending, Historical References, Holidays, I-thought-you-were-dead trope, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:28:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21906751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starknight/pseuds/starknight
Summary: “Why are you helping me?” Crowley slurred.Aziraphale had no idea. “Because you’re hurt,” he said. “Because I’m an angel,” he tried again. He winced, but made one last tentative argument. “Because, er… it’s Chanukah?”“G-g-good enough,” Crowley managed, and passed out.In which a demon goes missing, an angel reminisces, and… well, you’ll just have to find out.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Anathema Device, Aziraphale & Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 145
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wagnetic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wagnetic/gifts).



> This is a holiday swap fic for [Wagnetic](wagnetic.tumblr.com). Thank you for the inspiring prompts, it’s so interesting to find out all about a holiday I didn’t know too much about before! Wishing you, and everyone else who celebrates, a Happy Chanukah. ✨  
> Full disclaimer that I am not Jewish, please please please let me know if I’ve made a mistake somewhere or if there’s something that you think should be fixed. In saying that, thank you very much to [EmAndFandems](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmAndFandems/pseuds/EmAndFandems) for beta’ing and sensitivity reading!

Aziraphale had waited on the park bench in St James’ for days. Days and days and days. And even after days and days and days, Crowley did not come.

After two weeks, Aziraphale had accepted that Crowley was not coming. He walked back to his bookshop. He sat at his desk, stared into cold cocoa and waited for time to pass.

So pass time did.

Chanukah was a special time of year for many reasons. It celebrated religious freedom, for one, which Aziraphale was a big fan of. It also contained one of the more popular miracle stories. Humans had the remarkable quality of looking the impossible in the face, making uncomfortable eye contact, saying _well, I guess so?_ and writing it down. And the last reason - well. Crowley and Aziraphale had always been hereditary enemies, but they had an arrangement of sorts. For eight days of the year a truce was called, the candles were lit, and - for Aziraphale’s part - donuts were eaten.

All of that is to say - Aziraphale liked Chanukah, because it was the time of year he let himself be nice to Crowley.

And 2019 was the first year in over a thousand that he wouldn’t see his best friend on Kislev 25th.

He was thinking along this vein, stirring a five-day-old cup of tea and reading the same line on his page for the five-millionth time, when a knock came at the door.

Aziraphale ignored it.

“Oi!” a voice said. “Aziraphale, let me in.”

Aziraphale paused his stirring, and looked at the door. A silhouette was illuminated in the evening streetlight.

“I know you’re in there,” said Anathema. “I got you your fancy ass wine, and some sufgay- sufganinny- jam donuts.”

“Started on the wine already?” Aziraphale called back, despite himself, and put his book down.

“Shut up. Let me in, it’s bloody cold out here.”

Aziraphale focussed, and the door clicked open.

“Took you long enough.” Anathema made huffing noises, and took off her jacket, shaking her hat of the snowflakes that stuck to it. “Got some glasses?”

Aziraphale focussed, and with a glassy-sounding clink, they appeared on the table in front of him. Anathema sighed, but took the seat opposite, pushing valuable ancient scripts onto the dusty floor. Aziraphale didn’t say anything, just took the bottle from Anathema and poured for both of them.

“You doing okay?” she asked.

Aziraphale considered that. He didn’t feel much like answering, or entertaining, or drinking wine, but he’d do it anyway. Anathema seemed to think it was important that he Make Progress, whatever that meant.

“Okay is relative,” he said eventually, “But yes. I’m - no worse than last time.” He looked down at the book in his lap to avoid her Gaze of Scrutinous Wrath.

“It’s Chanukah,” she said gently. “Where’s your menorah?”

Aziraphale shrugged and bit his lip. “Oh, it’s somewhere around here.”

“Let’s light it together. Where, er, exactly?” Aziraphale looked up to see Anathema eyeing a large pile of books with trepidation.

“It’ll be in the kitchenette cupboard, out back,” he managed, biting harder as his lip threatened to wobble, “From last year.” His voice cracked.

“Oh, shit. It’s another one of - your things?”

Aziraphale nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Anathema leaned forwards and put a hand on his knee. He covered it with his own, breathing deeply for a few moments.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked. God, but that girl had the patience of a saint.

Aziraphale squeezed her hand and nodded.

“Last year was - hrmgh.” He cleared his throat and tried again. “The first time we celebrated it together was… oh gosh, it must have been…”

**Kislev 25th, 4078 (317AD) - Sepphoris in The Roman Empire, What is Now Israel**

Aziraphale had just set his best golden menorah on display in the window, on top of a rough-hewn wooden table, when a knock came at the door. He blinked, dusted down his robes, and went to see who it was. 

There wasn’t anyone there. He looked down the little street, thought something about _youngsters these days,_ and went to close the door, only to find that it wouldn’t shut.

“Ow,” said Crowley from his position on the ground. “That’s my finger, actually.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale yelped, jumping backwards. “You - what - what are you doing _here?_ How do you know where I live? And - why are you lying on the ground like that?”

“Oh, I prefer the view down here,” Crowley grinned. “You know, lots of - feet. Ow.”

“Um, _”_ said Aziraphale, noticing a dark patch blooming over Crowley’s abdomen, “Are you hurt?”

Crowley wiggled his fingers at Aziraphale. “I’ll live.”

Aziraphale blinked at him.

“Oh, right. You meant the stab wound.”

“The _what?”_

“Yeah, so, long story, I got stabbed. And - _ahhh, fuck it, that hurts_ \- I didn’t really know where else to go. Hell’s not - sss’not a very caring workplace, honestly. Terrible healthcare. We don’t even have dental.”

Aziraphale had stopped processing speech at this point, his brain entirely unable to come to terms with what the world was presenting it. His hands, though, had ripped off a bit of fabric from his robe and were busy applying it at a firm pressure to Crowley’s wound.

“Oh,” said Crowley, and then, “Ow.”

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale, too muddled to see the irony in apologizing to his archenemy for stopping his bleeding.

“‘Ziraphale?” Crowley slurred. Aziraphale’s heart did something strange at hearing his name come out of the demon’s mouth. 

“Yes?”

“Why are you helping me?”

Aziraphale had no idea. “Because you’re hurt,” he said. “Because I’m an angel,” he tried again. He winced, but made his last tentative argument. “Because, er… it’s Chanukah?”

“G-g-good enough,” Crowley managed, and passed out.

Anathema’s face looked strange when Aziraphale came out of his tale-telling reverie. 

“What is it?” he asked.

She opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “I - it’s just - well, why _did_ you help him?”

“I’m sorry?”

“He was your ‘archenemy’, and you tended to his wounds instead of kicking him into the gutter.”

“I, well… you wouldn’t understand.”

Anathema raised her eyebrows. “Right.”

 _“Anyway,”_ Aziraphale said, eager to push past this hitch in the story. “When I was done tending to his wounds, I fed him broth, spoonful by spoonful, until he was well enough to sit up.”

_“You fed your archenemy broth???”_

“Spoonful by spoonful.”

“Go on, then.”

Aziraphale didn’t know quite what was supposed to go in broth, and so he wasn’t sure that his miracled version would taste very good. He sipped a little before giving it to Crowley, though, and it was - well, passable. 

The demon was half-conscious, eyelids low and head floppy. Aziraphale had done his best to stop the bleeding, and patched him up with hastily miracled supplies. He’d have to lie to Michael about them.

“Mmmf,” Crowley protested, when Aziraphale pushed the spoon against his lips. “M’good.”

“Really?”

Crowley shrugged, his head lolling to the side. “I’ll be f-fff-fine.”

Aziraphale frowned, and let out a long breath. Crowley would be fine, given some time. But he couldn’t - well, he _shouldn’t -_

“You can stay here for the next few days,” he blurted. “If you want. You’re in no fit state to wander about the town on your own.”

Crowley opened his mouth, eyes wide, then closed it again. He bit his lip.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to, y’know, intrude.”

“Quite sure,” Aziraphale said. “You ought to stay until the end of Chanukah, at least.”

Crowley made a high-pitched sound from the back of his throat. “Right.”

Aziraphale made the mistake of looking directly into Crowley’s eyes. There had been legends, years ago, about snake-people being able to turn you to stone. Aziraphale had thought it exactly the sort of rumour Crowley would come up with - and yet, here he was. Frozen solid, like a rabbit in harsh lamplight.

Crowley cleared his throat and looked away, fiddling with his bandages, and the moment was broken. Aziraphale jumped up and looked around for something to pretend to do.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, going to his menorah. “I was just about to light this when you arrived. Shall we?”

Crowley made a vague sound of assent, and tried to stand up, swaying on the spot. Aziraphale rushed back to his side, pushing him firmly back into his chair.

“You stay right there,” he said, brushing Crowley’s shoulders of dust fretfully. “You don’t want to reopen it, do you?”

“Ugh,” Crowley grunted. Aziraphale went and fetched the menorah, as well as an oil lamp to light it by. He set the menorah on the low-lying table in between their chairs, lit the shamash, and held it out towards Crowley. 

Crowley looked similar to the frightened rabbit Aziraphale had felt like before. He cautiously stretched out his hand, though, and laid it on top of Aziraphale’s. It was a little clammy, a little shaky, and Aziraphale made a mental note to give him some fever medicine later. Together, they brought the shamash to the leftmost candle of the menorah, and set it alight.

It sparked a little, and danced around before settling. Aziraphale took it back to the display table and smiled at the way the candle flickered in the faint breeze from outside. He returned to his seat, and cast a sideways glance to see Crowley’s face in the dimmed candlelight. His eyes were illuminated brilliantly, exactly like a cat’s, and he watched the candle with a quiet intensity that made Aziraphale feel very queer.

“Ooookay,” Anathema said slowly. “You do know what that word means to people who were born in the last century, right?”

“Yes, dear girl, I know what it means.” He patted her knee and smiled. “But that’s really all there is to that story. Crowley moped around my house for a few days, and watched me eat more sufganiyot than either of us could count.”

“Some things never change,” said Anathema wisely, pushing the present-day sufganiyot towards him. Aziraphale looked away. Since Crowley had - well - ever since Armageddon, Aziraphale had oscillated wildly between starving himself and watching the ever-present London rain fling itself to the pavement, curling up in bed, stress-eating and reading _Little Women_. Today, though, wasn’t an eating day.

Anathema sighed. She got up, went to the kitchen, and returned with the dusty menorah. She put it on a table next to the window with that express purpose - much neater than the one Aziraphale had used all those years ago. He took one look at it and felt his eyes burn. Year after year after year of memory flashed through him. It was their constant. The one time of year when boundaries didn’t matter. And now, just when boundaries didn’t matter at all anymore, Crowley was gone.

Aziraphale lit the first candle of the menorah with Anathema, his hands shaking, tears streaming down his face. He wiped his cheeks with a hanky afterwards.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sniffing. “You don’t have to keep checking up on me, though it’s very kind. I’m rather terrible company, I know.”

Anathema took him by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

“You’re going through a hard time,” she said firmly, “And I’m always here for you. So is Tracy. She’ll be over in a week or so, alright?”

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, nodding weakly.

“You’ll be alright till then?”

He nodded again, trying to smile, and still sniffling dreadfully.

“Good. Then, the weekend after next, Trace will drive you up to Tadfield, and we’ll take Adam and his friends on a picnic or something. I’ll see you then.”

“See you,” said Aziraphale, and accepted the hug she gave him gratefully. She left with a tinkle of the bell, and closed the door quietly behind her.

Aziraphale sank back in his seat and tried very hard not to think of anything at all.


	2. Chapter 2

On the second day of Tevet, the doorbell rung briskly, shocking Aziraphale from where he slouched in his worn armchair. He looked at the door, heart beating fast. It was the last day of Chanukah, and somewhere, deep in the corner of his wearied and muddled brain, he had begun to think of it as the last chance Crowley would have to return. If he didn’t visit now, then he never would.

Of course, Aziraphale didn’t really think Crowley was only choosing not to visit.

He got up to answer the door with a deep breath, and tried very hard not to look disappointed when Tracy was standing outside.

“Hello, dear,” she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Goodness, it’s been a while. How are you? You look a bit peaky.”

“Hello,” said Aziraphale weakly. “I’m alright, thank you. Do come in.”

She did so, stamping her feet on the doormat. Aziraphale hadn’t realized how thick the snow was outside. He frowned at it for a moment before closing the door behind Tracy.

“Cup of tea?” he said automatically.

“Ooh, yes please, it’s very brisk out there. I ought to get a car, I suppose, motorbikes can be a bit nippy in the night, but I couldn’t bear to give it up.” Tracy went on talking, filling the air with little tidbits of her life, and Aziraphale went through the motions of tea-making. He could have miracled it, but he liked to make his visitors things. Add a little angelic care with the sugar. That sort of thing. 

Tracy accepted her tea gracefully, and Aziraphale sat opposite her in his chair. The menorah was in the same position as the other night when Anathema had left. He had been lighting it each night, though it almost made him cry to do it. It almost made him cry to think about it. He sipped his tea to avoid Tracy’s caring eyes.

“Now, really. How are you doing, love?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Not any worse.”

Tracy hummed. It sounded disapproving, and Aziraphale instantly felt terrible for disappointing her.

“Anathema was telling me this might be a difficult time of year,” she said, watching him closely. Aziraphale flinched. He couldn’t help it - this time of _year?_ That made it sound like - like it would happen again, next year, and the year after that, and on forever. He couldn’t stand the thought of it.

Realizing that Tracy was still waiting for a response, he gave a tiny nod.

“I’m sorry,” she said, patting his hand. “I know how it feels.”

“You do?”

“My late wife,” said Tracy, a misty look coming over her face, “Christine. Well, she wasn’t legally my wife, of course, not back then, but - I think you understand.”

Aziraphale understood perfectly well what it meant to love someone you were told not to.

“She was always very vocal about her ideas. I loved her for it, but she got into such a lot of trouble. Always getting arrested at protests, getting into big rows with her coworkers… It made life very difficult for her. And for me. But when I see the world today, I do think - that what she did, and what she said - oh, dearie me, I’m sorry.” Tracy took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “I like to think it made a difference for the better.”

Aziraphale took her hand and held it tight. “It did,” he said without doubt. “You can see it in the world today. So many people, finally allowed to be happy. She did a wonderful thing, Tracy.”

Tracy sniffed, and wiped her eyes again. “Thank you. I think so, too.”

“Crowley was - he was the same,” Aziraphale said. “He pretended like he was doing evil things, but it seemed like a lot of his plans accidentally worked out the other way. He asked all these questions, you see, and it really made me think. It made me a better person.”

Tracy squeezed his hand and smiled. “That’s lovely.”

Aziraphale felt a tear track its way down his cheek, and nodded. “Yes. He was. In fact, there was this one time - I remember it because it was the last day of Chanukah, too, but it must have been, hmmm… the twelfth century…”

**Tevet 2nd, 4912 (1151AD) - Reykjavik, Iceland**

Aziraphale stepped onto solid land with no small sense of relief. He had spent the day at sea, with orders to _bless the fish,_ whatever that meant. Michael couldn’t say he hadn’t tried, though - he’d muttered some soothing latin to the nets of wriggling fish they’d caught, and gotten thoroughly soaked in the process.

He pushed a wet strand of hair off of his forehead and squinted at the town. 

“Hello, angel,” said a voice behind him. He spun around to see Crowley sitting atop one a crate on the dock, grinning at him. “Catch anything good?”

Aziraphale sighed, and rolled his eyes, and pretended not to feel warm at the sight of Crowley.

“What are you doing here?”

Crowley shrugged, and said, “I was bored. Thought I’d - I don’t know - walk you home?”

The glow of affection in Aziraphale’s stomach grew. “Oh, my dear. That’s very considerate. Thank you.”

Crowley grunted and held out his arm, which Aziraphale took. They began the trek back to Aziraphale’s little cottage. 

“Last day of Chanukah,” Aziraphale commented after a while. “Do you know where you’ll be next year?”

Crowley shrugged. “Somewhere. Not Iceland. Definitely not Iceland.”

Aziraphale had to agree with him. It was incredibly beautiful, but incredibly uncomfortable. 

“Have you finished your, er, tempting here, then?”

Crowley grinned. “I haven’t been tempting, angel. I’ve been _scheming.”_

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and pursed his lips. “Scheming what, exactly?”

Apparently, Crowley had been waiting for him to ask, because his grin grew wider and his eyes brightened.

“Insurance,” he said proudly. “It’s a money-making scheme. See, you get people to pay you while you do absolutely nothing.”

“Why would they do that?”

“You tell them, see, that if their house burns down, you’ll pay for it. And that way you make money, because everyone’s paying you, but most houses don’t burn down. Clever, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale thought about it. It was rather clever, but he wasn’t so sure it was evil.

“So - you actually do pay for the houses that burn down?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Isn’t that something you’d expect my lot to do? It seems charitable.”

Crowley went red. “Well - but - I - there’s a lot of money to be made,” he said lamely.

“It is very clever,” Aziraphale said, and squeezed his arm. “Well done.”

Crowley emitted a choked noise, his face reddening more so that his nose was nearly purple. Aziraphale graciously didn’t say anything else for the rest of the walk, and Crowley did seem to recover somewhat.

“And then?” prompted Tracy. 

Aziraphale shook himself. He’d gone into a trance trying to remember the exact way Crowley’s cheeks had flushed - did it come on suddenly, or gradually? From the bottom up, or the top down? He tried not to let the forgetting bother him.

“Oh. Well, then we lit the candles, and had a lovely Chanukah. I don’t actually remember much of the rest of it - we drank an awful lot of wine.”

Tracy laughed. “Cheers to that,” she said warmly. Aziraphale grudgingly clinked his glass against hers (when had that appeared in front of him?).

He did remember it. All of it. They had drunk a lot, but alcohol didn’t affect angelic memory the same way - it only loosened inhibitions. Aziraphale remembered Crowley watching him with the same focus he’d watched the very first candle they lit together. He remembered thinly veiled questions, and his own thick and clumsy answers. He remembered Crowley leaning in, and the heat of his skin, his lips, and - and he remembered the next morning. The solitude and emptiness. The guilt.

“I just don’t think I can get used to it - him not being here,” he said, surprising himself. There was something about Tracy’s face that just made him want to speak his mind.

“You’ll find that you do,” she said, watching him closely. “That’s the next hardest part, actually.”

It didn’t sound like a problem that Aziraphale would have, but then, he had never been through this grief before. It swallowed him like some kind of dark and tumultuous underwater valley.

“How long does it take?” His voice sounded odd and strained.

Tracy shrugged. “It depends, love. The better you knew them, the longer, I suppose.”

Aziraphale had a flash of understanding - _six thousand years of grief_ \- and immediately pushed it aside. He couldn’t do it for years. Not if he knew it would be years.

“It helps to meet new people,” Tracy suggested cautiously.

Aziraphale snapped his head to look at her, incredulous.

“Oh, not like that,” she huffed. “Just friends.”

Aziraphale hummed, but didn’t say anything. Six thousand years of grief, collapsing in on him. There were so many humans, billions and billions of them. But Aziraphale knew all the other angels, and most of the demons, and none were like Crowley. No one could ever be like Crowley.

“I have to get going soon,” said Tracy, checking her watch. “Sorry, love. Do you want to light the candles with me?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I’ll wait.” 

The pity that creased Tracy’s face was hard to watch, and harder to avoid absorbing.

“Alright, then. Let me know if you need anything, won’t you?”

Aziraphale nodded. She left the shop with a bustle and a tinkle of the bell, and then he was alone. Blessedly, awfully alone. He ought to have lit the menorah already - it was well past _tzeit hakochavim_ \- but he couldn’t. Lighting it would make this the first year in sixteen hundred years that he’d done it entirely alone.

“Crowley,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Don’t make me do this alone. I can’t. I never could.”

He imagined that he heard the bell ringing, the door opening. Footsteps on the floor. Was that a breeze, or just goosebumps? His ears pricked, and he felt something at his core - a familiar tug. _Crowley._

Aziraphale’s eyes shot open. He looked around the shop wildly, but there was nothing and no-one. The door wasn’t open. The tug at his soul was gone. 

“Ugh,” he moaned, putting his face in his hands. He’d been reading too much. It happened sometimes - his imagination got the better of him when he got too used to the experience of metaphor through written words. “I hate this.”

He took his hands away from his eyes to see a still-Crowley-less bookshop, blinked a few times, and went to the display table. With a thought, the shamash sprang alight, and Aziraphale picked it up. The night was dark and stormy outside, old snow being picked up and hurled at the windows to make it impossible to see much other than the faint glow of snow-surrounded streetlight.

Aziraphale brought the shamash forwards. It felt as if his heart were on his sleeve, in the flame, drawing further and further away from him. He let out a sob he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in, and then his hand was shaking with the force of his crying.

 _This is it,_ he thought, as the shamash lit the first candle. _This is my life now._

The second and the third were easier. And Aziraphale, with his back to the door, could have sworn he heard the bell ring. He cried more heavily, cursing his brain, his heart, his entire being for always making everything worse.

The fourth and fifth candle lit easily. Aziraphale’s hand shook at the sixth, and then more at the seventh. By the time he ought to have lit the eighth candle, he was sobbing in great gasps, holding the table for support. His neck chilled with goosebumps again.

 _I wish I could do a miracle to bring you back,_ Aziraphale thought desperately. _Anything. I’d do anything._

He screwed up his eyes as he held the shamash forwards. His heart thundered, but there was another sound too. Were they - footsteps? Or was it the echoing drumbeat of his panic?

Aziraphale paused in his lighting. He listened more closely, but there was nothing.

Nothing.

Not nothing.

Was that _him_ breathing?

A cold hand closed over his own, and Aziraphale’s eyes flew open just in time to see Crowley’s hand guide his gently to the eighth candle.

“Chanukah Sameach,” said a soft voice.

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, with his real eyes and hair and soul-tugs. He blinked. And blinked.

And then he fainted.


	3. Chapter 3

“-gel? Angel? Angel? Aziraphale? Can you hear - oh! Hello!”

Aziraphale winced, and screwed up his eyes against the light. 

“S’bright,” he mumbled.

“Shit, sorry, I thought - you know, in movies, they - never mind.” The blinding light vanished, leaving a much more pleasant dimness in its wake. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale automatically. Then his brain reloaded its memories and spat them simultaneously at him. He let himself reel and panic for a moment before opening his eyes and seeking out Crowley. 

Right. It seemed the reeling and panicking wasn’t actually over.

“Hey, hey,” said Crowley, stroking the side of his face. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Aziraphale tried to slow his breathing. “Are you? Really?”

“Really really.”

Aziraphale felt the hot tears (that hadn’t really stopped during his faint) begin to pick up momentum again. Crowley’s face swam in his vision, and he wiped at his eyes angrily. If this was a vision, or a hallucination, or a dream, he didn’t want to waste a second of Crowley’s face in HD.

And oh, it was HD all right. 

Crowley’s red-gold hair fell in long ringlets about his face, catching the light both in stillness and movement. He kept on flicking it anxiously, and it shimmered with the candlelight, a streak of light passing through the air, like a very temporary oil painting in the making. His skin was pale - a little unhealthy, Aziraphale thought with worry - and his cheekbones still stuck out in that annoyingly cool (and, if Aziraphale was being honest with himself, sexy) way they always did. Crowley’s eyes were somehow bigger than Aziraphale remembered - or were they just more focussed on him? No sunglasses tonight. They were topaz reflecting all the love and relief Crowley’s face brought him right back at him.

“Really?” Aziraphale asked again, and reached a hand up to Crowley’s face.

Crowley let out a broken sigh, leaning his cheek into Aziraphale’s palm. “I think so.”

The casual, intimate touch had stunned Aziraphale into silence. He could only watch and absorb the feeling as Crowley nuzzled at his hand. 

“Er,” said Crowley after a beat, “Sorry. I just -”

“No,” said Aziraphale, finding the courage to stroke Crowley’s cheek with his thumb. And again. And then he just kept doing it. “I - I want it. Please.”

Crowley’s cheek grew hot underneath his palm, and he flushed. Bottom-up. Aziraphale didn’t know how he’d forgotten it, the skywards progression of Crowley’s mortification, so precious and so his.

But there were things to sort out, too. Aziraphale reluctantly took his hand away so he could sit up - Crowley must have moved him to the couch, where he sat perched next to Aziraphale now.

“So,” said Aziraphale uncertainly, leaning sideways on the couch in a familiar position. Crowley’s arm was lying along the top of the couch, so that it just brushed Aziraphale’s shoulder. That was familiar, too. Unfamiliar that he felt so comfortable with it. Unfamiliar that there was no guilt pulling him away.

“So,” Crowley echoed.

“What happened to you?” Aziraphale asked. He put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, because it didn’t seem like the sort of question he should ask without a caring touch.

“Um,” said Crowley, his voice wavering. “Can we just - leave it at - Hell?” He winced at the word leaving his mouth. Aziraphale saw his mouth wobble, and made the executive decision - tonight was not the night for this conversation.

“Yes,” he said, his hand sliding down to press against Crowley’s chest. “Yes, of course. You’re home now. Safe. That’s what matters.”

“Hrmgk,” Crowley said. “But you. Are you - you don’t seem alright.”

Aziraphale cocked his head. “I - I will be.”

“Did something happen?”

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open. He was sure Crowley was making one of his  _ really-not-the-time-for-this _ jokes, but - he looked genuinely confused. 

“Other than me thinking you were dead??”

Crowley nodded.

“No, that was - that was about it. That was - Crowley, you - you have to know how much it… affected me.”

“Affected?” Crowley still looked so confused.

“It  _ broke _ me, Crowley,” said Aziraphale in a rush. “You were gone, and I had nothing, and no-one, and I waited for you, I wanted to wait forever, and then it was Chanukah and you still weren’t - you weren’t - oh, God,” he broke off, and began to cry again. He leaned forwards, and then Crowley was pulling the angel against him, and Aziraphale’s hands were both pressed against his warm chest.

“I’m here now,” Crowley soothed, stroking his hair. “It’s okay, angel. I’m here.”

Aziraphale took a few minutes to cry himself out before he could speak again. By then, Crowley’s left shoulder was quite sodden, and the fabric of his blazer crumpled with the twist of Aziraphale’s hands in it.

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale, trying to brush Crowley’s clothes into straightness. Crowley shrugged and mumbled something about raw-manifested fabric. Aziraphale looked up into his eyes, and they were so close, and Crowley’s eyes were wet and glowing with their intensity.

And so Aziraphale, already having him grabbed by the lapels, leaned in and kissed him.

Crowley’s kiss was very solid. Very real. That was what Aziraphale liked best of all, he decided, because the kisses in his fantasies had not lived up to half of this experience. Crowley also kissed like a demon - that is, ruthlessly, relentlessly, and extremely well.

“Mmmf,” Crowley managed, and Aziraphale, suddenly realizing exactly how sudden his move had been, pulled back.

“Sorry,” he said, right before Crowley pulled him back for more kissing. Then he gasped an  _ oh _ into Crowley’s mouth, and the giddiness of reciprocation almost made him faint again. The room spun. Only Crowley was solid, only Crowley was real, and Aziraphale clung to him for dear life. 

When the kissing had stopped being desperate, when it had stopped feeling like a way of reassuring each other they were present and here and alive, Aziraphale lay down on the couch and pulled Crowley on top of him. They embraced like that, exchanging smiles and kisses that filled Aziraphale with the kind of happiness that God had surely not created angels for.

“Crowley?” said Aziraphale.

“Mmm?” Crowley asked, pupils dilated, his eyelids low and sleepy.

“I’m so happy you’re safe. I’m so - so glad you’re here. I hate the world without you.”

Crowley blushed, bottom-up. “Angel, you can’t just -  _ say _ all those things. About me.”

“And why not?”

“Because then I have to - I want to - I need to tell you, too. How happy I am. And I don’t think I can do that.”

Aziraphale felt a chill of panic slide down his spine. “You’re not… happy?”

“No! I mean - yes? I’m happy! Happy, angel!” Crowley reassured frantically. “I just - there aren’t really words. Y’know? I’m living an entirely different life right now than I was half an hour ago. You. You’re the life I want. The life I - I love.”

The word hung in the air between them. At first, it was a little awkward, and it came with sharp edges that Aziraphale thought might scratch. But then - well. The old allegiances didn’t matter anymore, and Aziraphale was damned if he’d let anything else come between them.

“You’re the life I love, too,” he said. “I mean - I love you. You know that.”

Crowley closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah,” said Crowley, still breathing deep and slow. “I just - I need to not hyperventilate right now. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. You. Saying that.”

Aziraphale didn’t know how he could ever feel warmer, even in a badly-insulated London bookshop in mid-winter. 

“I love you too, in case that wasn’t obvious,” said Crowley as an afterthought.

Aziraphale huffed with laughter and let his head fall against Crowley’s chest. “I know that, I think,” he admitted. “I’ve known for a while.”

“Mmm,” Crowley hummed. “I know. I mean, I knew that you knew. I didn’t know that - ugh. You know what I mean.”

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale. “I’m not very good at treating you well. You deserve better, you know.”

“Do I know, though?” Crowley grinned. Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“Obviously not. And - you know what, forget that. I’m not going to tell you. You’ll just be stuck with me.”

“Fine by me,” said Crowley, and kissed him again.

So in the end, Crowley was stuck with Aziraphale, and Aziraphale was stuck with him in return. And they were both quite happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all the organizers for the good omens holiday swap 2019! Thank you to my beta EmAndFandems! And of course you, lovely readers, thank you all so much. Have a brilliant 2020 full of all the things you like best. Stay safe, sane, and awesome.  
> 💖💖💖

**Author's Note:**

> [come yell at my tumblr](https://gay-star-knight.tumblr.com/)


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